


Every Third Day

by aminiatureworld



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, a drunk character who doesn't act drunk because plot convienience, maximum salt, this is my first fanfic on here so please be nice I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aminiatureworld/pseuds/aminiatureworld
Summary: Jaskier gets a gig after the breakup and a scene ensues
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 30





	Every Third Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is solely based off my viewing of the show. Also the first half was written at 3am the second during a particular period of saltiness. Regardless I hope you enjoy it

Jaskier was just angry that Geralt had been so undeniably rude. That was how the bard tried to rationalize it at least, after the mess with the dragon and whatnot. How embarrassing, was what he told himself the final emotion of that confrontation was, what a scene, and what a twat Geralt was for doing such a thing when there were other people up on that mountain with them; even if they weren’t close around them, it was really quite rude of him to risk such a thing getting into someone’s hearing. After all, bards have to worry about reputations, not like witchers, who can just slink around here and there and intimidate others into some form of silence usually. But it wasn’t as if Jaskier could glare a drunk patron to silence. And reputation was all that bards had really, besides their songs of course, and even popular hits could fail with a certain type of crowd.  


Yes, it was how unfortunately irresponsible Geralt had been, his rudeness, that made Jaskier so testy in regards to witchers. There was nothing else to be said about it, that was that. It was what he told himself every time he thought of a joke for Geralt, or bought extra food for Roach, or strung together a hum, whose lyrics somehow always turned towards that dragon’s den, eternal lamenting, and whatnot. Of course, there was a part of him that knew he was absolutely in denial, that small slimy voice which needled him this way and that, which seemed to have some sort of inner clock set for three in the morning every three days, Jaskier wasn’t sure why it was always three, but then again he wasn’t supposed to be hearing the voice anyways, the voice which reminding Jaskier that there was a little more to it than simply being offended, that Jaskier was actually quite cut up about the whole matter, and that eventually someone was going to have to swallow their pride and make the first move towards reconciliation, or find some gods forsaken forgetting magic, or else nothing would be solved. Jaskier knew the voice wasn’t technically wrong, but really it only came every third day, and sometimes could be coaxed away, if he sacrificed his kidneys enough, so Jaskier didn’t see reason in bringing up the points that part of himself made.  


Of course easier said than done and all that, honestly Jaskier had always liked to think himself better than that nonsense, but he supposed sometimes it was truly inevitable. And he couldn’t really help that it was one such night, a third night, when he was invited to play at that god forsaken banquet. What it was being given for, well Jaskier hadn’t a damn. He didn’t really care that much after all, it was just another gig, and if it weren’t the third day and one of those times, he probably wouldn’t’ve even given it a second thought. But unfortunately Fate was being very rude, almost as rude as Geralt had been, so there he was, doublet half on, staring into the mirror of his room at the inn, wondering why he couldn’t have become some pompous professor, rather than, well, whatever the hell he was now, for he didn’t feel at all like a bard, perhaps more of a barnacle, unable to leave his fixture in front of the mirror.  


He wasn’t even sure what he was staring at, some part of the wood on the back wall was holding all of his attention and none at all simultaneously, and though he had a vague awareness that he ought not to have been staring so much, and ought to have been doing something more productive, like finishing getting dressed or checking to make sure a peg hadn’t slipped on his lute, really the new chill in the air was causing the pitch to go all sorts of horrendous, but it also wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t find himself doing any of those things, and besides, it all seemed like an awful lot of work, and things like money were becoming a lot more abstract the more he wandered, really at this point why not try to lie outside in the woods, with his luck some other stupid witcher would pick him up for a few months before surreptitiously dumping him. The plan didn’t seem to horrible, but then Jaskier remembered that finding food was an awful lot harder in the woods, and maybe he’d be able to get some ale that was at least marginally better than whatever he was living off of in these grungy towns. Besides, war was hard to ignore, and there seemed an awful lot of that recently. Might as well try to enjoy something.  


To say such arguments were convincing would’ve been a bold faced lie, and Jaskier wasn’t quite so idiotic as to try those on himself, but it was certainly a distraction, and, to Jaskier’s great shock, he found arguing with himself much more entertaining than staring at pine, so, picking a variety of topics to scold and cajole himself about, he finally finished knotting up his doublet, and even had time to realize the A string had slipped once more, before walking out of the door of his room, heart not truly lighter, but at least a bit more distracted. 

-  


Jaskier wished he’d saved some of that distraction for later, for apparently only one of the hosts had wished for a bard, the other being quite tone deaf and quite without care, so the night was less bawdy jigs and the like, and more sitting in the corner wishing he could take one of the ceremonial daggers on the gentlemen’s belts and stab himself through the ears so he didn’t have to keep listening about a bad loan on one of the lord’s summer houses. Really Jaskier always though one house was quite enough, but though he supposed he could be wrong in regards to its necessity, he was quite confident in the matter of whether the topic had any merit or worth, the answer being a most decisive no. He’d managed to excuse himself, claiming need for a piss, before finding a dark enough corridor to fiddle around in until it was time to be paid, or until one of the surly looking guards shoved him back into the hall.  
Now he sat in the near darkness, fingers strumming a variety of chord progressions. Jaskier was quite the fan of tritones, they always sounded so dark and distorted, and now he went down the line of them, chuckling as he remembered the time he played a tritone in front of a particularly swooning type of lady, and she accused him of either attempting to summon some sort of demon, or being a particularly terrible bard. Go figure that nobility knew next to nothing about music. The tritones having been played Jaskier strummed a few other random chords, minor 2nds and the like, before allowing himself to fall into the familiar. He hadn’t played Toss a Coin since the entire debacle, not publicly anyways. That thing might’ve sold well, but it wouldn’t really do for your bard to suddenly stop or, even worse, burst into tears or some such thing, so that song had been surreptitiously shelved for other tunes which, though perhaps not as popular or iconic, really in the end let Jaskier take more gigs than if he’d tried to push through and play… that. But now that he was alone, bored, and vaguely irritated, he allowed the muscle memory take over, and soon enough was singing softly to himself. When it ended he started again, and again, and again. He knew he ought to have stopped, ought to have gone back, but it was the third day, and surely it was almost three in the morning, and Jaskier was just, so tired. So he let himself go, for a moment, for only a moment, and lost himself in the music, and in the past.  


Eventually the moment passed, the talking died down, and Jaskier figured it’d been long enough, and it was probably time to collect the bill. He stood up from his position on the floor, brushing his pants off and strapping the lute over his back. He hoped that, despite the second host being hardly thrilled of his presence, I suppose bards were too peasant-y for his tastes, that wouldn’t stop him from collecting his fee, after all wasn’t it illegal to swindle bars, but while he was musing over the idea of how much his pay was in jeopardy, he hardly noticed that, though he’d arrived in the middle of the hall there was no one talking, and it was only until he bumped into the back of a lady that he found himself looking up, and, when his eyes met the back of the all too familiar figure, Jaskier wondered why he’d hadn’t just stayed staring at the wall of the inn, for surely there could be no worse experience than this.  


The emotions that hit Jaskier were really quite obnoxious, and he found himself trying not to run, or scream, or throw something. That bastard! Really he was quite the rudest, most infuriating, most inconsiderate man Jaskier had ever met. An emotion was welling up inside of him, an emotion that was too close to relief and, well, a sort of fondness that was certainly not welcome at the time, for Jaskier was angry. Angry as he’d been angry few times before, for this was that witcher, his witcher, and of course it was, of course Jaskier hadn’t been able to run far enough, though he’d slunk around in every sludgy hovel he could find trying to avoid just this kind of thing. A man who complained about house loans wasn’t supposed to be the kind to attract witchers, really; yet here Jaskier was and there was Geralt and it’d probably be more prudent to walk away just then, but Jaskier was still feeling quite angry, and all common sense had long since dissipated into the night, so he hardly felt anything that could be called embarrassment or regret as he shoved his way through the crowd, stepped into the center of the circle that people always cleared away when Geralt was around, and, taking the Witcher by the shoulder, whirled Geralt around to face him.  


Geralt looked as close to floored as Jaskier had ever seen him, which was to say his eyes widened, his brow furrowed, and he took a minute step back. Really it was sometimes unfair how reticent Geralt was, when Jaskier, had the positions been switched, would’ve probably been screaming by now. Instead a silence permeated the circle, while, at the borders of it a small amount of tittering came from the crowd. Jaskier realized he ought to have planned farther out than this, the idea of sneaking away had suddenly become much more appealing, but it was too late, and Jaskier was too angry, and honestly why couldn’t he have just gotten his money and left; so, instead of doing something polite, or perhaps even rational, he decided instead that to simply yell “What the fuck are you doing here?” was the best opening line he had. Geralt’s narrowed eyes immediately conveyed that was not perhaps the best decision Jaskier had made, but it was too late, and honestly Jaskier felt he deserved the answer to that question anyways, so, instead of perhaps backing up or turning and leaving, he crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one leg, an eyebrow raised, trying to look as intimidating as possible.  


Perhaps it worked, more likely Geralt was sick of the attention and had decided just answering was a quicker way to get out of this than haggling, Jaskier was a master at haggling, for after a few seconds pause the Witcher simply sighed and, gesturing towards the dais, roughly replied “I’m here to receive my payment.” Jaskier followed the hand towards the man who’d been complaining Jaskier’s ears off about the house loan. Now the man looked almost as purple as the belt he was wearing, and Jaskier didn’t know whether to laugh or bang his head on the wall.  
“So that was the payment you were telling me about.” He rolled his eyes. “Honestly you might as well pay now because last time Geralt was surrounded by so many people he ended up an adoptive father-to-be and honestly, if he deals with another one as well as he dealt with the first, your poor kid is going to be in great want of a guardian their entire life.” The man looked even worse at that and, shaking his head, gestured for the two men in the circle to come up and talk. Jaskier followed Geralt, after all he needed his wages too, and besides this was probably going to be at least the tiniest bit interesting, which would be some kind of payment for the whole embarrassing situation, and when Geralt didn’t try to steer him away Jaskier decided that if they could limit their actions to a line spoken every once in a while in public, maybe this third day thing would finally shut up.  
The haggling, there was always haggling, took almost an hour, and by the time both witcher and bard had been ushered out with what they were owed Jaskier could’ve sworn that he was already seeing the first signs of dawn. The walk towards the town was silent at first, but Jaskier figured since he wasn’t likely to see Geralt for a long time afterwards, if ever, he’d at least get some conversation out of him.  


“So whatever did happen to your child of surprise?” He glanced up towards Geralt, who looked as stodgy as ever, typical. Hearing the question though he tilted his head towards the bard.  


“Ciri’s with Yennefer.” He replied curtly. Jaskier, being very much drunk on lack of sleep, and a few stiff drinks, burst out laughing.  


“So not only did you finally accept you destiny and whatnot, but you sent a child to… Yennefer?” Geralt glared at the laughing Jaskier.  


“It’s more complicated than that.” His tone was irritated, but Jaskier wasn’t over, and simply smiled acerbically.  


“Ah yes, well forgive me for not having second sight in regards to your comings and goings. Really,” he rolled his eyes, “you dump me off in some forsaken dragon’s dwelling then expected me to spend my every move tracking you. Well, forgive me, but I don’t make it a point to keep tabs with closed bars.” He was growing irritated again, and started pushing ahead a bit.  


“Jaskier, I’m… sorry.” The bard didn’t think he heard the Witcher right, stopping dead in his tracks. Turning around, Jaskier stared up at Geralt, for he didn’t think that anything deserved such malice as this, yet Geralt seemed utterly serious, even regretful. It was an expression Jaskier hadn’t seen before, perhaps the most open emotion yet to cross the stodgy witcher’s face, and Jaskier honestly had no idea what to make of it, for to laugh or joke seemed inappropriate now and yet the terrain was so unfamiliar and he was surrounded by cliffs, and didn’t know which to jump off of. He stared as the moments passed, and, finding he could find no clever way to convey his feelings, decided that if Geralt couldn’t handle the slightly cut up bard, then better to realize it now then on another mountaintop.  


“What you did Geralt was very rude,” he started, before the small voice rose up, insisting on correcting him, for now if he didn’t he’d be very much lying to not only Geralt but himself and that wouldn’t do, “it was was very rude,” he continued, “and it was very hurtful. I thought, even if I was nothing than your bardic sometimes-friend, that, I deserved more. And that you never then sent word of your actions, only to show up now, I don’t know what to make of it,” he swallowed, forcing himself to look Geralt dead in the face, as he’d not look at an audience’s shoes during an important song or speech, “but that you’re sorry, that you apologized, well, that means a great deal to me, more perhaps even than all the money I’ve received since our departure.” He paused for a moment, this was veering off into dangerous territory. “What I’m trying to say is, thank you for apologizing and acknowledging that it was hurtful.” He smiled softly then went to turn back towards the town again.  


“Jaskier,” he stopped again, “what I mean to ask,” Geralt looked incredibly uncomfortable now, not a foreign emotion, and clasped his hands in front of him, “would you consider coming with me again, and meeting Ciri.”  


“What?” Jaskier’s jaw dropped and he utterly forgot trying to control his speech. “What on Earth for?”  


“You’re smart, and educated, and it’d be good for Ciri to learn; besides,” Geralt paused again, “I’d like it.”  


“You…” Jaskier shook his head, perhaps he was still at the inn staring at the wall, or perhaps he’d passed out in the castle hallway. “Are you quite sure?” was all he could manage. Geralt nodded curtly, and Jaskier figured if this was some sort of stupor or dream, he’d at least carry it as far as he could. And. if it was real, well Geralt was certainly rude, but he also was honest most days, and if his adopted kid, Ciri, need Jaskier, well then, how could he refuse. So Jaskier found himself smiling and nodding back, even tearing up, to what would be his great embarrassment when he slept a little, as he replied. 

“Then yes, of course I’d consider it, yes. After all, you are my friend.” The little voice whispered inside him that was also a lie, though perhaps a more complicated one, but as Jaskier walked closer to Geralt, humming a familiar tune and even going so far as to tentatively reach his hand towards the Witcher, he was truly drunk, he figured that dealing with that emotion every third day was certainly not so difficult. Of course not, he thought, when, to his delight, Geralt accepted the outstretched hand, not difficult at all.


End file.
